


99.9%

by orphan_account



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind AU, M/M, Non-Chronological Timeline, dreamscape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-07-04 21:39:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15849888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: In this day and age, forgetting is a choice.





	99.9%

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dollyeo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dollyeo/gifts).



> happy swn anniversary, nini!!!!  
> it was an absolute honour to write for you <3 thank you for being a part of soonwoonet, and thank you for blessing us with your talents and loveliness!!!! you deserve the entire world, ninisus, but i hope you'll accept this teeny, tiny, unworthy fic, instead :') it was hard to decide on a prompt! your entire prompt list is pure gold, and i wanted to do them all. in the end, i went with your "eternal sunshine of the spotless mind" prompt!!!

Wonwoo is thinking about taxis when the receptionist calls for him. It’s not that he particularly likes taxis, he's just bored, and there’s nothing to do in the waiting room. Besides, a taxi brought him here, so they're still fresh in his mind.

“Jeon Wonwoo-nim?”

Stamped to the front of the receptionist's desk, in block letters, is _Lacuna_. It's a strange name for a company, foreign in its consonants, syllables, and the way it feels on his tongue. Something from the west, no doubt, as the strangest gimmicks always come from there.

“Yes, that’s me.”

“Do you have the necessary forms and photo identification?”

The receptionist starts typing when Wonwoo hands them over, nails making hollow noises as they press against the keyboard. For a fleeting moment, Wonwoo almost thinks he forgot to make an appointment, or that his name won’t be in the database. For the shortest fraction of a second, he feels something akin to relief, though he isn’t sure why. He came for liberation, not to be weighed down by even more stresses.

“Appointment at three with Dr. Choi?” He nods in confirmation. “Follow the hallway, please. Dr. Choi’s office is at the very end.”

Following a stiff bow of thanks, he steps further into the building, observing his surroundings as he walks. The floor of the hallway is granite, and the doors are painted white. Some are opened, and he catches glimpses of silver contraptions and blank-faced workers scribbling onto clipboards. One particular room has two men arguing over a hunk of stray wires.

The end of the hallway comes too soon, and it boasts a single, white door. With a touch of hesitance, he taps his knuckles against the wood, and he's greeted by a bright smile on the third knock. It's startling to receive such a warm welcome; it goes against every expectation he had for Dr. Choi. To be honest, he's not sure _what_ he’d been expecting. Maybe a tired and disgruntled doctor–––the stereotypical kind that shows up in dramas–––and a room as cluttered as the memories that threaten to spill out of his head. But Dr. Choi is incredibly neat; the kind of man who enjoys the aesthetics of minimalism and the benefits of sparsity. A person who smiles easily, and who draws laughter from every conversation he enters. The office is just as startlingly as the man who inhabits it, empty, save for the lone, white desk in the corner and the black bookshelf behind it. 

As they take a seat, he notices a tape recorder on the desk. It's the old-fashioned kind that was wiped out with the introduction of cell phones. Ironic, really: a place claiming to erase the past is holding onto a piece of it.

“Before we start the appointment, I have a few questions.” Wonwoo nods as the doctor reaches for his tape recorder. “Can you answer them for me?”

 

 

_The last time I saw him?_

_We had a fight in his apartment._

_About this, actually._

_The mind wipe, I mean._

 

 

Wonwoo opens his eyes to the Lacuna hallway. He’s standing in front of Dr. Choi’s office. Patiently, he waits, but the door doesn’t budge, and the doctor never shows. He knocks thrice.

“Doctor?”

There's no reply. Wonwoo's not the kind of person who enters rooms, or offices, without express permission, but what else is he to do? So, he pushes the door open a crack, and shyly peeks in.  
  
“You’re here.”

It’s not Dr. Choi’s voice, or the receptionist’s, or anyone else he’s talked to in the last month. Though it takes him a few moments, he comes to recognize it. Years will come to pass, and maybe decades will, too, but he won't ever forget it. Abandoning all his previous caution, he pushes the door ajar.

“What do we do? Tell me what we’re supposed to do,” Soonyoung demands, eyes narrowed in distaste. By his side, his hands are crumpled into fists.

“How am I supposed to know?” Wonwoo responds, feeling something akin to annoyance. 

The words are said without hesitance, and they're so full of hate. He can’t sort his thoughts out, and he can’t think past the blinding fury that coats his tongue.

Soonyoung has a bad case of a bed head; his black hair is pulled here and there, in a careless sort of way. In the past, before his throat was raw from screaming and his thoughts were fueled by hatred, Wonwoo found it endearing. Now, it’s nothing but an eyesore.

“You’re fucking impossible,” Soonyoung spits as he backs away from the door.

Wonwoo blindly follows. With a start, he recognizes Soonyoung’s apartment. The annoyingly yellow curtains, and the glass table decorated with paper coasters. In the corner, beside the window, is the beat-up couch. Though Soonyoung would never admit it, the couch was a gift for Wonwoo. Soonyoung doesn’t use couches–––he prefers the floor–––but Wonwoo does. He’d spent a lot of time on that sofa, with Soonyoung sat on the floor below him, head resting on Wonwoo’s arm. It's hard to remember those times when faced with the disappointing reality of their present.

A soft click snaps him out of his reverie; Soonyoung has locked himself in the washroom. Rather than being worried, Wonwoo's just annoyed.

“I thought you wanted to talk?”

“Forget it. I know you don't want to."

They stand in silence, on opposite sides of a peeled, brown door. It is but a mere scrap of wood, but Wonwoo can’t get in, and Soonyoung can’t get out, so maybe it’s impenetrable. A sinking feeling blossoms in his stomach when he hears Soonyoung cry. There are sniffles, at first, then laboured breathing that slowly evolves into sporadic gasps of air. Wonwoo leans his head against the door, with his eyes closed.

He’s making Soonyoung cry. It’s not that he means to, but intent means very little in the face of such broken tears. He’s tired. There is a fatigue in his chest, and in his bones, and in every other part of his body. He blames the watering of his eyes on the fatigue, and not the crushing truth that stands between them. He hates this, and he thinks he might hate Soonyoung, too, but that’s alright. After all, Soonyoung outright  _despises_ him. And that’s the truth, isn’t it? They can't stand one another, not anymore. 

“Just leave,” Soonyoung says, but his voice cracks at the end.   
  
“Leave,” he repeats listlessly. “Is that what you want me to do?”  
  
Separating won’t make things better. He had loved Soonyoung for months and days and years, and to suddenly stop seems almost impossible.

“I asked you!” Soonyoung snaps, voice strained. “I asked what you wanted to do, and you didn’t have a god damn answer. So, here’s my answer!”

How despicable they’ve both become.

Wonwoo looks at the lines of his palms and watches as they crinkle and stretch at the opening and closing of his hands. There are no answers written on them, of course, there aren't, but there _is_ one on the tip of his tongue. 

“Have you heard of Lacuna?” he asks.

“Stop changing the subject.”

“I’m not.”

“How does _Lacuna_ have to do with anything?”  
  
Wonwoo scoffs. “Just answer.”  
  
“No.”

He rubs at the errant tears that streak his cheeks and pool at the corners of his eyes. Some his lips with kisses of salt.

“It’s some company from America. They do mind wipes.”  
  
“What the fuck is a mind wipe?”

“They erase people.” Wonwoo swallows.

“From what?”  
  
“Memories.”

 _Us_ , he thinks. _They can erase us, Soonyoung_. _The anger, the hatred, and the hurt. All of it._ The doorknob to the washroom turns, slowly, and the door opens. Soonyoung stands on the other side, looking at him with glassy eyes.

“A blank slate.”

He doesn’t remember which one of them said it, but it’s not like it matters.

Nothing happens for a while, and no one speaks, but then as if in a trance, Soonyoung walks past Wonwoo. The front door opens and closes, and the room is drowned in the deafening silence of nothing. Without its owner, the apartment is stifling. It’s like the room is demanding something from him, some sort of explanation or apology that he doesn’t know how to give. It’s maddening. So, he runs, pulling the door open with an urgency he didn’t know he had.

“Soonyoung, wait.”

But Soonyoung is gone. There’s no one but Wonwoo and the vast whiteness of the Lacuna hallway. The endless array of doors seems to stretch on for miles, unfamiliar to him, though he knows he’s been here before. 

Where could Soonyoung have gone? He’s an impulsive person, not the type to make a thoughtful decision in such a short span of time. He’d have chosen the nearest door, the one closest to himself.

Wonwoo reaches for the doorknob.

 

 

_We just stopped talking, I guess._

_Stopped trying._

 

 

The colours in Wonwoo's apartment, compared to Soonyoung’s, are mute. They're quietly present in a way that reflects himself.

He remembers this day: they sat on the floor and ate chicken, with the television off. A bottle of Pepsi to share and an order of half fried, half-dressed chicken. Wonwoo absentmindedly taps his fingers on the floor, and Soonyoung leans against the leg of the sofa, his feet stretched out in front of him.

There’s a lot they could talk about, that they _should_ talk about, but not a single word is uttered. Talking would devolve into an argument and open a floodgate of complaints, and neither of them wants that. They're tired of fighting. The apartment is calm, but not in the way that Wonwoo enjoys. It’s the stillness before something goes off. Something loud and devastating; something that only ever destroys. At this point in their relationship, they’re stretching out the inevitable, and it’s awkward at best. This scene, this day, them right now, it’s pulling the pin and waiting for the subsequent explosion. He almost prefers the yelling, at least they’d be _talking_ then.

“Soonyoung?” Wonwoo’s not sure why he’s speaking, but he knows he’s not supposed to. The memory is without sound, save for the quiet intakes of breath and the clicking of utensils.

Soonyoung looks over at him with questioning eyes. He’s taken off his tie, and his blazer lies in a haphazard pile beside him, forgotten. Wonwoo opens his mouth, trying to think of something to say, but the look on Soonyoung’s face kills the words before they can be strung into sentences. The look is one of complete disinterest, a blank face worn down by hours of arguing. In an ideal world, the tiredness would be because of work, and they'd complain to each other with exhausted smiles and soft laughter. They wouldn’t be tired _because_ of each other. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” he pleads. "Stop it."

Soonyoung doesn’t stop, eyes unwavering in their intensity. Waiting for Wonwoo to say something useful.

This is what's supposed to happen: Wonwoo doesn't speak, and neither does Soonyoung, so they eat in silence. When the sun sets, they lie together in the dark, with only the cicadas to pierce the endless stretch of quiet. Soonyoung is gone by morning. He doesn't leave behind a single note or any sign that he was ever there.

Wonwoo can't do this again; he _won't_. It's impossible, he really can't do it, so he stands as quickly as his legs will allow. Without a word of farewell, he flees, making a run for the front door. In accordance with the memory, Soonyoung says nothing. He does nothing. Maybe he feels nothing, too.

The hallway is paradise compared to what he'd left behind. Desperate to put as much distance between himself and the dead look on Soonyoung's face, he all but dashes into another door, one that's far from the last. 

 

 

 _Before that?_  
  
_Well, I guess we just argued._

_About our jobs, and time, and how we didn’t understand one other._

_About everything._

 

  
  
If he had to guess where he is, he’d say a restaurant. The air smells of grilling meat and vinegar, and there are empty tables all around him. At the very back of the restaurant is a table for four, but it seats only one person.

Soonyoung stares at Wonwoo’s approaching figure, and he digs his chopsticks into the perilla leaves beside him. There’s a screech as Wonwoo pulls out a chair and takes a seat.

“Incheon is a weird place for an office,” Soonyoung comments. “Expensive land, and for what? There’s nothing there.”

Wonwoo frowns as he reaches for a pair of chopsticks. “I’m aware.”

“You’re upset,” Soonyoung remarks, without a trace of apology. It’s a statement, not a question, and that's what infuriates Wonwoo. He doesn't think it's too much to expect a little support.  
  
“It’s not like I can choose where the company moves me."

He waits for an apology, but he doesn’t get one. Of course; this isn’t the person who smiled at him with bright eyes and said sweet sentiments as easily as he breathed air. An entirely different man sits in front of Wonwoo, and it's an entirely different time.

“It’s far. From Seoul, I mean.”

“A lot of places are far from Seoul. Believe it or not, Seoul is not the centre of the world,” Wonwoo can’t help but point out. The words are laced with spite. "And it's not that far, you're just lazy."

He knows what happens after this, it’s easy to remember. The passive aggressive comments and the searching eyes. The honest words they kept unspoken. It’s just one argument amongst many. Maybe it’s because he knows the ending, or maybe the smoke has just gone to his head. Regardless of the reason, he opens his mouth and changes what he knows is supposed to happen. It’s easier to say the words–––the ones that had been running through his head that day–––when he knows the repercussions of staying silent.

“I would come to visit you, Soonyoung. Even if I lived in Incheon, you had to have known that."  
  
Soonyoung freezes, his chopsticks halfway to his open mouth. Sauce drips from the meat and onto the table.

“You never told me that,” Soonyoung accuses, putting down his utensils to stare enquiringly at him. “That day, you never said anything.”

“I know.” Wonwoo swallows. “We fought, instead,” he recalls. “All the way to moving day.”  
  
“And a little bit after, too,” Soonyoung reminds him.

He’s right. Their arguments knew no end, and the distance only exasperated them. Suddenly, it wasn’t as easy to make time for each other, and the days without talking only made them more impatient.

"Would it have made a difference if I had said something?” Wonwoo quietly asks. “If you had said something?”

Soonyoung considers this for a long while. “Maybe.” There’s a clack as a pair of chopsticks are put down on the table, and Soonyoung’s chair scrapes the ground as he stands up. “We’ll never know, now.”

“I guess not."

“It’s best to leave things like this in the past, Wonwoo. Don’t dwell on them for too long.” And Soonyoung is gone, slipping out of the restaurant door as easily as Wonwoo had come in. He wonders why it always ends like this: one of them leaving, and the other left to watch.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, but the meat stops smoking in front of him and the food goes cold. Eventually, he gets up and follows Soonyoung out.

 

 

 _At first, things weren’t so bad._

_Kind of quiet._

_Not the bad kind of quiet._

_The kind where nothing really happens, you know?_

 

 

“You’re here,” Soonyoung says, looking up from his phone. His hair is hidden behind a big, white hat, and he's dwarfed by his oversized jacket.

“Let’s go,” Wonwoo mutters in reply, rubbing his hands for warmth.

“Sure.”

He remembers this day, though he’s starting to believe there isn’t a single memory with Soonyoung that he _can’t_ recall with startling clarity. Every blade of grass, every spoken word, and every minute detail is imprinted in his mind, and things that happened months, days, or years ago feel like just yesterday.

This is what happens: he and Soonyoung meet in the late evening. They go to Myeongdong, though neither of them likes shopping. It’s too late in the evening for any of the better stores to be open, and the streets are overcrowded with tourists and excited teenagers. He hasn’t been to Myeongdong since he was a teen himself, with a lot more vigour and time to waste.

He forgets why they chose Myeongdong, but it was probably for the noise. The loudness prevents Wonwoo and Soonyoung from having to talk. They walk side by side, making the occasional comment when something catches their eye. Sometimes, the comments stretch into the inklings of an actual conversation, and Wonwoo can fool himself into a false sense of comfort.

With nothing better to do, Wonwoo looks up at the polluted sky. As of late, the smog in Seoul has worsened, and citizens have started wearing masks on the daily. Soonyoung doesn't like wearing a mask, and neither does Wonwoo, though the similarity doesn’t inspire any conversation. He peers over at his boyfriend, at the tint of pink that colours his cheeks and the tips of his ears, and the way he presses his lips together. Their hands swing next to each other as they walk, fingers close enough to touch, but far enough away that it’ll never happen. He'd wanted to hold hands that day. There was an itching desire to stretch his fingers and link them with those of the boy beside him.

As the evening draws on, the city lights blur into one. He’s not sure when it happens, but the storefronts and the sidewalks fade into a multi-coloured haze. When he was younger, before he got his glasses, he would squint at the blackboard, struggling to make out the squiggles and shapes he knew were supposed to be words. Right now, the dimly lit buildings and the hazy street shops remind him of that time. Straining to see something he knows should be there, but failing to do so.

With a blink, he’s no longer in the crowded streets of a South Korean tourist trap. Instead, he stands in an endless corridor of white, white, and white. He’s starting to hate the Lacuna hallway, with its smooth floors and its closed doors. Doors that lead somewhere and nowhere, all at the same time.

 

 

_Yeah._

_Yeah, there were happier times._

 

 

There’s nothing special about the door he chooses next, though there was nothing special about the previous doors, either. But this time, what he sees in front of him has him smiling. It’s labour day, and he’s standing in his apartment; the one he lived in before moving to Incheon. 

“Not sure what labour day is even for, but hey, I’m not complaining,” Soonyoung says with a triumphant smile. “Happy labour day!”

“Yeah,” Wonwoo laughs. “You too.”

It’s chilly outside, and the air is thick with the remnants of autumn chill. Most of his co-workers are driving to Gangnam; they’ll squeeze into an expensive club and exhaust themselves before returning to work. Those with family near Seoul are visiting home, though very few are that fortunate. Soonyoung insisted on spending the day together, spouting some nonsense about camaraderie and the unity of working men living far from home. Honestly, he’d have said yes to anything Soonyoung proposed for the day, as long as they were together.

Wonwoo sits on the couch, and Soonyoung on the floor. There’s a song stuck in Wonwoo’s head, and he hums it under his breath. He’d forgotten how much he liked the song and the humming stirs up something in his chest. A forcefully forgotten nostalgia, maybe, or feelings he'd long forgotten.

“If you’re going to sing, do it properly,” Soonyoung snorts.

“You try it, then.”  
  
“Maybe I will.”  
  
“By all means,” Wonwoo offers, gesturing lazily with his hand. “Go on.”

He should have known that Soonyoung would take up the challenge. He’s _Soonyoung_ , of course, he would. Without a trace of embarrassment, Soonyoung launches into the chorus part, eyes twinkling with mischief as he purposely cracks his voice and belts in the wrong pitch. 

“You’re so loud,” Wonwoo complains, but he’s laughing all the same. “Your neighbours must hate you.”  
  
The comment is enough to put a stop to the serenade. “Please, my neighbours love me. The ajumma downstairs brings me kimchi stew on weekends, you know.”  
  
“Idiot. Kimchi stew is what you give people you don’t care for.” Soonyoung scoffs at the notion, but Wonwoo ignores him. “The ajusshi next door? He gives me tsundae-gguk and jokbal. Now _that's_ true love.”

There’s something familiar about this conversation; they’ve lived through a thousand variations of it. Competitions full of light-hearted humour, about every little thing.

_It’s harder to be a rookie at my workplace than yours._

_You have to fetch coffee and energy drinks for your seniors? Well, I’ve got a degree in business administration and I’m a glorified pencil-picker-upper._

_My handwriting is neater than yours._

_You think you’ve got it hard? My unit operates on the seventh floor of our building, and the elevator is broken. Imagine all those stairs, just imagine!_

_I pull more all-nighters than you._

_I can drink more somaek._

_You can’t--_

_I can--_  
  
_Bet you can’t--_

 _I can_ this and _I can_ that, and Wonwoo’s face hurts from smiling. Strange how he can fall so easily into the rut of things–––bantering mindlessly with Soonyoung and laughing at his jokes–––when it’s been so long. Then again, in the beginning, being with Soonyoung had always felt like this: belonging without a thought.

There’s a slight tickle as Soonyoung rests his head on Wonwoo’s knee.

“Here’s to labour day,” Wonwoo says to the ceiling, though the answer he gets is from the man on the floor.

“I’ll drink to that.”  
  
“You don’t have alcohol.”  
  
“Good,” Soonyoung says, and Wonwoo thinks he rolls his eyes. “I’m sick of the stuff. You’d think the divisional head would get tired of drinking, right? Nope, he drags us out every goddamn week.”

Wonwoo hums in sympathy; his situation isn’t much better.

This is what he remembers about today: they do nothing. They sit, and they talk, and Soonyoung turns on the television to watch a mid-day drama. It’s a horrible drama, with a shit storyline and the worst acting they've ever had the misfortune of experiencing. Soonyoung stays on the floor because he apparently dislikes the comforts of soft cushions underneath his ass. Wonwoo leans down at some point and kisses him. Partly for something to do, and partly because he can. Soonyoung’s lips pull into a smile during the kiss, and it’s nice.

All too soon, the edges of the apartment start to blur, fading from the corners like a flame eating paper. Slowly, slowly eating away, until the paper is nothing but ashes.

“I think it’s time you left,” Soonyoung says, eyes trained on the television.

“I don’t want to.”

It’s the most honest he’s been with Soonyoung in a while. He doesn’t want to leave because he likes it here. He wants to stay, and it’s really as simple as that. And why can't things be simple when he's had enough overcomplication to last him several lifetimes?

“Well, we don’t always get what we want, do we?” Soonyoung laughs at something on the screen, blissfully unaware of how the apartment is blurring away. Though, it seems more like he doesn’t care.

It’s slipping away, all of it.

“Soonyoung,” Wonwoo cries, and he sounds desperate, despite his attempts not to.

“It’s either you leave willingly, or you’re forced to,” Soonyoung points out, and he tears his eyes away from the television. He offers Wonwoo a quirked brow like this is just another one of their stupid competitions. “You can’t stay here, you know that.”  
  
“Why?” 

Soonyoung ignores him and gestures to the front door. Should Wonwoo choose to stay, he’ll blink, and the apartment will fade until he’s left with nothing but a white hallway. All roads lead to the same path, and nothing he does will ever change that. While walking to the front door, he looks back at what he can’t have. Soonyoung waves goodbye before the door closes and hides him from view.

No matter how hard Wonwoo pulls, or how much he jiggles the knob, the door won’t open again. But a small part of Wonwoo knew it wouldn’t, even before he tried.

 

 

_They were happy times, I think._

 

 

Wonwoo can’t open the next door fast enough, and he’s stopped trying to choose a meaningful door. In here, there are no meaningful doors; they’re all the same. They always lead to the same person.

This time around, it’s a KTX station, and Soonyoung is frantically waving amongst a crowd of people. Most of them are tourists, they look at the station with wide eyes gaping mouths.

“I thought you wouldn’t make it,” Soonyoung admits, yelling to be heard over the rumbling of the trains. “You were so close to missing the train.”  
  
“I didn’t, though.”

“Not the point.” And Soonyoung bumps Wonwoo’s shoulder with his, eyes bright with the cheer of the day. “You know how these trains work, buddy. They arrive exactly on time and leave a second later.”  
  
“Thanks for explaining how arrival and departure times work. I had _no_ idea.”

“Obviously, or you wouldn’t have almost missed the train.”

“Shut up,” Wonwoo says with feeling, but none that he actually means.

He tips his head back and squints up at the sun, blooming at the warmth. A moderate day where even the clouds are nice to look at and the sun doesn’t feel too hot on his face. The kind of weather that inspires all sorts of daydreams and mind wanderings. Soonyoung’s voice is what tethers him back to reality.

“I told my parents we were work friends,” he says, and there’s an undertone of _something_ in his voice.

The words are said teasingly enough, but there’s something underneath it all. Longing, maybe. Bitterness, perhaps. They’re more than just friends, but no one else really knows that. Do they even know about it? Not quite dating, but not just friends; what an awkward place to be.

“You think I’ll like Namyang-ju?” Wonwoo asks, changing the subject.

“Nah, it’s boring. Nothing happens. You’ll like my mom, though.”

“Oh?”  
  
“She’s the best person in the world, guaranteed.”  
  
“Best person in the world, huh? I vaguely remember you claiming that title, a few days ago.”

Soonyoung is saved by the arrival of the train. They hear it before they see it, the ear-shattering screech of the metal and the rush of air as the vehicle slices through the wind. On instinct, Wonwoo steps back from the platform, flinching at the noise. They’re pushed and prodded as people gather around, preparing to board. With a warning beep, the doors to the train start to open, and Wonwoo peers in to see the relentless white of the Lacuna hallway, instead of the carpeted floors and worn seats of a KTX. He stays put, even as the crowd pushes past him. Even when Soonyoung nudges him with a look of worry.

“What’re you doing?”

He grabs for Soonyoung’s arm, fingers curling around the wrist. There's a horrible thought in his head that permeates his actions; a thought that if he lets Soonyoung go, he won’t see him again. Not in this memory, anyway, because the memory won’t exist after he walks through those doors.

Here’s what he remembers about today: they're going to visit Soonyoung's parents in Namyang-ju. Soonyoung books the tickets too late, though. They can’t get seats next to each other, but that's alright. They sit in separate compartments. He remembers liking Soonyoung’s mother; she has Soonyoung’s smile and his thin eyes, weathered by light wrinkles and years under the sun. Her grip is surprisingly firm when he shakes his hand. She laughs like her son, too: with reckless abandon, and without a thought to what it must sound like to other people.

But Wonwoo doesn’t think he’s going to Namyang-ju, he doesn’t think the train will take him there. When he walks through those doors, he’s going back to that cursed hallway.

“Come with me.”  
  
“We aren’t in the same compartment,” Soonyoung points out. “Different seats, remember? I’ll see you there.”

Wonwoo shakes his head, trying to translate his urgency into the simple gesture. He’s determined to take Soonyoung with him, to not let him go this time.

“Come on,” he says, and he pulls at Soonyoung’s arm.

“Is this your way of shaming me for the late ticket booking? Come on, I said I was sorry, didn’t I?”  
  
“Soonyoung, _please_.”

He tugs a little harder. Miraculously, he's followed through the doors. Maybe Soonyoung’s feeling generous that day, or maybe Wonwoo just looked _that_ distressed. With a soft thud, two sets of feet land on the cold, granite floors of a hallway that Wonwoo despises.

 

 

_Dr. Choi?_

_Before we continue, may I ask you a question?_

 

 

“There are so many doors,” Soonyoung mumbles in awe. His eyes are wide, struggling to take in as much as they can. “Do you know where we are?” Soonyoung asks, pausing mid-step, and looking back at Wonwoo with a confused sort of smile. “I mean, we’re obviously not in Namyang-ju.”  
  
“A hallway.”  
  
“Wow, I had no idea. Really, you’re just _so_ helpful sometimes.”

“Thanks." He reaches over and fixes Soonyoung’s hair; there’s a stray piece that went flying when the train blasted them with air. “We’re in Lacuna.”

Though he doesn’t respond, the deadpan expression on Soonyoung’s face makes it clear that the name means nothing to him.

“Well, whatever, guess there’s no better answer than the one you find out for yourself,” Soonyoung snorts, swatting away Wonwoo’s fingers and rushing towards the closest door. 

“Don’t!” 

“What? You afraid of a tiny, little door?”

 “No, that's not it.”

“Alright then. Let’s go, aren’t you curious as to what’s beyond these doors?”  
  
Not in the slightest, not anymore. Why should he be when he’s seen enough? Here, he has Soonyoung an arm’s length away without the fear that he’ll fade into oblivion.  
  
“No.”  
  
“Well, what do you want to do then?”  
  
“Why can’t we,” he clears his throat, shuffling awkwardly in place, “stay here?”

But he knows Soonyoung, which means he knows Soonyoung isn’t the kind of person that can do nothing. He simply can’t let things be, and that’s something Wonwoo had loved about him.

Soonyoung offers a hand, an impatient look on his face. “Come on.”  
  
And Wonwoo takes the hand. He follows it through a white door and to answers he’d never really wanted.

 

 

_How does this work?_

 

 

It’s Dr. Choi’s office, in all its spotless glory. The doctor is sitting in his chair. His eyes pierce through Wonwoo as they enter, and if the doctor sees Soonyoung, he makes no sign of it.

“We should leave,” he says quickly.  
  
“We should sit,” Soonyoung argues, pulling Wonwoo into the empty seats in front of the desk. “This guy might have answers.”

The chairs are plastic, but not uncomfortable to sit in. Soonyoung taps his feet on the carpeted floor, eyeing Dr. Choi with open curiousity. There are a few heartbeats of nothing, and Soonyoung opens his mouth to speak, but Dr. Choi beats him to it.

“How does this work?” Dr. Choi repeats, cocking his head to the side, and his voice is not unkind. “The procedure, you mean?” The question is directed at Wonwoo.  
  
“Yes,” he immediately answers, in accordance with the memory.

Soonyoung says nothing, though his eyes do flit over to Wonwoo’s face when he speaks.

“It’s quite simple. A while back, we asked you to bring us items that you associated with the person. Every, tangible item, in fact.” He glances over at Wonwoo, looking for confirmation that his instructions were followed. “Today, we’re using those items to create a map of your brain. One associated with the person.”

 Beside him, Soonyoung’s feet have paused in their tapping. They’re hauntingly still.

“A map,” Wonwoo repeats, the words feeling strange in his mouth. Heavy, somehow. They sound distorted to his ears like they’re not coming from him. They feel a lifetime away.

“It’s not as frightening as it sounds,” Dr. Choi assures him. “We examine the activity in your brain, to see how it reacts when presented with the items. With that, we develop the map.”

It sounds plenty frightening to Wonwoo, but he stifles his fear. “Why do you need the map?”

“It’s used as a target. To direct us towards the parts of your brain that require altering.” There’s a pause as the doctor considers how to word his next sentence, how to sufficiently dumb it down for Wonwoo. “Then, using this map, we erase the necessary memories during medically induced slumber. From the comfort of your house. That way, when you wake from the forced slumber, you’ll have no recollections of Lacuna or the subject memories. You’ll assume you woke up from a nice, restful nap.”

“I don’t get it,” he repeats, feeling helplessly small.

The truth is, he gets it, he understands the science as well as he’s ever going to, and he gets why he’s here, and he gets the mind maps and the fancy words. But he doesn’t understand why he’d do this, why he’d agree to it. Why he would ever allow himself to consider it. There’s a moment where the doctor looks almost sorry, but the expression is gone as fast as it came. The way he answers is softer though, quieter. Wonwoo’s not sure if the tape recorder even caught it.

“There’s an emotional core to every memory. Once you eradicate that core, take away the feelings in the memory, the memory starts to degrade. It fades.”

“That’s what you’re going to do, then?” Wonwoo whispers, because it doesn’t seem like something that should be said at a normal volume. “You’re going to take away the...the feelings.”

“Essentially.” 

“What.” Wonwoo stops himself when he realizes how childish his next question is, how utterly pitiful he’ll sound. But there’s something about the doctor’s patient gaze that draws it out of him. Soonyoung is quiet enough that Wonwoo almost forgets he’s there. “What’s the erasing like?”

“Painless. We give you sleep medication before it starts. You won’t be woken.”

“I know, but I.” Wonwoo takes a breath of air. “What’s it like, for me?”

The doctor lets out a surprised laugh. “It’s different for every person. Though, I would assume that–––to those undergoing the mind wipe–––it would seem like a dream. A very strange dream.”

“A dream?”

“Yes.”

“So, what happens when I wake up?” 

“When you wake up, you’ll have no memories of the dream.” Dr. Choi pauses. “Or the person you came to erase.” 

Wonwoo braves looking over at Soonyoung and almost flinches at the passive expression on his face. There’s no anger, which makes everything worse. Anger would be easy to handle, and Wonwoo’s used to it by now. Anger would make sense.

But Soonyoung’s demeanour is one of complete acceptance.

“I-I’m dreaming _now_ ,” Wonwoo whispers, in the midst of a horrifying realization. “It’s happening now, isn’t it? The erasing. It’s been going on this whole time.” He’s looking at Soonyoung as he speaks, but the question is for the doctor, and it’s the doctor that answers.

“I would assume so, yes.” A pause. “It would explain a lot, wouldn’t it? Something as strange as an endless hallway of doors, each leading to a memory of Kwon Soonyoung--nim? Such a thing could only ever happen in a dream.”

This is what he remembers: he comes to Lacuna at half past two, with a bundle of completed forms and a piece of photo identification. He walks the narrow corridors until he reaches a white door at the very end of the hall. He sits in a neat, little office, and answers every question the doctor asks him. Then, he accepts a small, plastic capsule with three vibrantly blue pills. Sleep medication, Dr. Choi explains to him. When the appointment is over, he presses his spare key into Dr. Choi's palm. It's early evening by the time he gets home. Though he has no memories of downing the pills that night, he can only assume it happened.

“You’re erasing me?” Soonyoung asks, speaking for the first time in what feels like ages. There’s no obvious emotion in his words.

“You erased me first,” Wonwoo snaps. It’s a childish and petty thing to say, but true, nonetheless. He remembers it now, planning their appointments so they wouldn’t overlap; Soonyoung had insisted on the first available one. That’s the kind of person he was. “You went ahead of me. You did it first.”

“Oh.” Soonyoung offers him a wobbly smile, so unlike the one at the KTX station in Seoul or at his apartment on labour day. “Guess we’re even, then?”

“No, that’s not what I---Soonyoung, I don’t care about being even. This isn’t one of our stupid competitions. They’re erasing you!” He’s yelling because he doesn’t think Soonyoung understands. “I’m not going to remember you.”

“Isn’t that what you wanted?” Soonyoung asks, frowning at Wonwoo’s raised volume. “And don’t yell at me, you don’t have the right! It’s what we both wanted, right? That’s why we did it, the erasing, or whatever you call this fancy crap.”

“I--” Wonwoo stops, struggling for words.

It _had_ been what he’d wanted. The pain and the fights and the _failure,_ he’d wanted it gone. But he hadn’t wanted Soonyoung gone, not entirely, and definitely not like this. Being with Soonyoung wasn’t always bad. There had been memories of chapped lips breaking into smiles, and hands clammy with excitement. Memories of train stations, blaring televisions, and peaceful evenings. He doesn’t want to wake up without memories of a person he'd loved. Because he had loved Soonyoung, that much he’s sure of. It’s why it hurt so much when things hadn’t worked out, why he’d been so desperate to find a way––– any way at all–––to erase the hurt.

But forgetting Soonyoung hurts far worse than remembering him.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and he means it. He truly means it. "I'm so sorry."

Soonyoung smiles, and it looks surer this time around, more _him_. “Yeah, me too.”

Wonwoo offers a hand, and Soonyoung takes it. His palms are warm and rough, exactly how Wonwoo remembers them to feel.

“You know,” Soonyoung says, voice strangely loud, or maybe it's not loud at all. Maybe the office is just so silent that any sound, regardless of the volume, comes out sounding like a yell. “This is all a dream, right? So, really, you’re just _imagining_ me apologizing to you. That’s just sad, Wonwoo.”

He laughs as he curls he laces their fingers together. They don't fit together, not really. Wonwoo’s fingers are lanky where Soonyoung’s are round, and it's far from a perfect fit. But it’s perfect because it’s them.

“You’d better leave,” Dr. Choi comments, reminding them of his presence. He’s carding through paperwork, scribbling notes down with a cheap fountain pen. The doctor doesn’t spare them a second glance. “This memory is degrading. It’ll be gone, soon.”

Wonwoo was never good at putting up a front, but he tries his best to pretend the words don’t jar him as much as they do.

“Right.”  
  
“You choose the next door,” Soonyoung decides. “Since I chose this one.”

 

 

_A significant memory?_

_Well, I guess it would be---_

 

 

On the other side of the door, the obnoxious flickering of neon signs greets them. The sky is dim, and the smell of fried food is almost suffocating. It's a night market in the depths of Seoul, with food stalls, and small shops selling overpriced trinkets. Red tents are set up to offer cover from the rain, but the sky is clear at the moment.

“Oh,” Soonyoung exclaims, eyes widening in recognition. The flashing of the fluorescent lights is reflected in his eyes. “Bamdokkaebi night market! I searched it up online. I’d always wanted to go.”  
  
Soonyoung lets go of his hand to point at something in the distance, and it leaves him with a lingering feeling of cold. Already, he misses the warmth of touching palms and carded fingers.

“Why?” he asks. “Convenience stores are far more, well, convenient. They're cheaper, too.”  
  
“Where’s your spirit, grandpa? You know what you need?”

Wonwoo squints at the fairy lights strung up above them. They won’t be there, come morning. None of this will. 

“Odeng,” Soonyoung continues. “A nice, piping stick of odeng will get you in the mood, trust me. There’s got to be an odeng stall around here, somewhere, so---”

Wonwoo grabs Soonyoung’s arm before he can decide against it, and he pulls him away. He runs until the brightness of the night market dims in the background, and until his lungs constrict with strain. The only sound is the intake of breath and the sound of sneakers against the asphalt.

Soonyoung wheezes when they stop running, resting his palms on the tops of his knees. “Do you hate the night market _that_ much?” he gasps, struggling to catch his breath.

“What? No, this isn’t about the market.” He makes a grab for Soonyoung’s shoulders and grips the loose clothing in his crumpled fists. “Listen, we have to find a way to stop the erasing.”  
  
“Oh, right. _That_. What can we do? It's not like you have any control over it.”

“So, what? Should I just let it happen? It wouldn’t hurt to act like you care.”

Their conversation could so easily devolve into an argument–––it’s happened countless times before–––but Soonyoung shakes the hands off his shoulder and meets Wonwoo’s gaze with a quiet, little smile.

“I care. But I’m smart enough to know we can’t change anything.”

“We can run,” Wonwoo insists, but as far as plans go, it’s not a very good one. It’s the only one he can think of, at the moment, and it’s probably the only one that exists.

“Right, because running away always solves problems,” Soonyoung agrees, sarcastically. He seems to be more amused than outright opposed to the idea.

“Dr. Choi said he’s degrading the memories, right?”  
  
“Honestly, a lot of what he said flew over my head.”  
  
“We run before this memory can degrade, or fade, or whatever it’s supposed to do. If we run fast enough–––far enough away–––and avoid the erasing, just until morning, then maybe--”  
  
“Maybe you won’t wake up saying _who the hell is Soonyoung_?”

Hopefully, Wonwoo's expression is enough to communicate his displeasure.

“Just trying to lighten the mood,” Soonyoung grumbles, throwing up his hands in a gesture of innocence. “You take yourself too seriously. It’s bad for your health, you know.”

But Soonyoung links their hands together, and they run.

 

 

_That night._

_At some market._

_With lights strung up, above our heads._

 

 

Their legs carry them as far as they can go. Shamefully, it isn’t very far. They run until they can’t anymore, and, in a fit of dramatics, Soonyoung collapses onto the floor. Wonwoo struggles to quell the burning in his lungs.

“Did we do it?” Soonyoung asks, voice hoarse from exertion.

The edges of the dimly lit sky are fading into something indistinguishable. Fading like everything related to Soonyoung eventually will.

“Not quite.”

“Well, you’re going to have to drag my limp body away, then. I can’t run anymore. I don’t even think I can get up.”

Quietly, he ponders how far they’d have to run before it would be enough, but the answer is right in front of him. It’s in the way the sharpness of their surroundings–––the cool asphalt beneath their feet, the distinct shape of city buildings, and the quiet hum of the streetlights–––is melting into a mute nothing.

“As good as the whole _pensive silence_ thing looks on you, I need you to voice your thoughts. How’re we to escape my inevitable doom?”  
  
“Take this seriously, Soonyoung.”  
  
“Now you’re just asking for the impossible.”

Soonyoung huffs in amusement when Wonwoo joins him on the floor, resting his head on the gritty asphalt. They’re a long way off from the night market, in some secluded street that he can’t remember the name of. It's obviously a dream, no Seoul street is ever this quiet.

“You could try waking up,” Soonyoung suggests, though he doesn’t seem to have much faith in the idea. “Wake up and tell the fancy doctor to stop.”  
  
“Sleep medication,” Wonwoo reminds him. “I can’t wake up.”  
  
Soonyoung turns his head to face Wonwoo, wincing slightly as gravel digs into his cheek. “Well, shit, that’s all I had up my sleeve.”

“I thought that realizing I was dreaming would help. Like, maybe I could lucid dream or something? Control what happens here? But I don’t think I can.”  
  
“That would have been fun,” Soonyoung agrees. “Take back control of your mind! March back into that office and surprise Dr. Choi with a flying kick, or something just as dramatic.”  
  
Wonwoo can’t help it, he laughs, and Soonyoung chimes in. A calming sound that rises into the blurry sky.

“The doctor did no wrong. He’s just doing his job.”

“Yeah, well, seeing as he’s scrubbing me out of your mind, I still kind of want to punch him in the face.”

“I guess that’s fair.”

“Of course, it is. I’ve earned the right.”

Wonwoo smiles. “Just one punch, though. One, singular punch. No more than one.”  
  
“That’s fair,” Soonyoung echoes.

“Hey, Soonyoung?”  
  
“Yeah?”

“I don’t think it matters. No matter what I do, what I try, it’ll never be enough.”

A hand snakes into his own, and Wonwoo lets it.

“Do you remember what happens today?” Soonyoung asks, still facing him. The corners of his lips are quirked up, and they’ve been that way for a while. It’s unclear what he finds so amusing.

“What would you do if I said no?”  
  
“Not believe you. Today was our first kiss, and I’m an amazing kisser, so it’s impossible for you to have forgotten. I’m a real stud.”  
  
“A narcissistic dumbass is what you are.”  
  
“And you’re the guy dumb enough to kiss a narcissistic dumbass, automatically making you, like, ten times dumber.”

“You got me there,” Wonwoo concedes, and he thinks he gets it now–––what Soonyoung finds so amusing–––because the corners of his lips twitch with a barely suppressed smile.

 

 

 _What happened that night?_  
  
_Not a lot, I guess._

 

 

“You dragged me all over the place,” Wonwoo recalls. “To every stall.”

“Ah, yes. An endless array of interesting products. I had to see it all.”

“They sold the most useless shit I’ve ever seen, and _I’ve_ had the misfortune of experiencing Myeongdong, remember? I mean, what could you possibly need a high-end back scratcher for? How can a back scratcher even be high-end?”  
  
“Wonwoo, you heathen, it was an _imported_ back scratcher, made from the finest western wood. I would have scratched my back like a god.”

The fading of his surroundings is disorienting to look at, so he closes his eyes and revels in the feeling of the hand holding his own. A spot of warmth amongst an even warmer memory.

“I dragged you away from a ddeokbokki stall.”  
  
“You certainly did. Good call on your part, I can’t handle spice.”  
  
“Then, I pulled you into the more dimly lit part of the market; the fairy lights had gone out in that section.”  
  
“It was near the edge of the market,” Soonyoung chimes in, and Wonwoo’s eyes are still closed, but he can hear the grin in Soonyoung’s voice. “You wanted to hold my hand.”  
  
“I did,” he agrees.  
  
“You kept glancing at it when you thought I wasn’t looking.”  
  
“You weren’t the pinnacle of suave, either. Don’t think I didn’t catch your staring.”  
  
“I’m big enough to admit that you’re hot."  
  
“And I’m big enough to admit that I’d wanted to kiss you. I had for a while,” Wonwoo admits.

“Why didn’t you do it sooner? If you’d wanted to, you should have.”  
  
“We weren’t dating, not then. We’d never even talked about it, Soonyoung, and I didn’t want to assume. What if–––”

“What if I didn’t like you back?” Soonyoung laughs, and his grip on Wonwoo’s hand tightens. “Come on, I’d always liked you as more than a friend. From the very beginning. You had to have known that.”  
  
And he had known. It was in the way Soonyoung would look at Wonwoo–––searching his face for a confirmation that Wonwoo was too shy to give–––and the pink that coloured the tips of his ears when they stood too close. He’d try so hard to make Wonwoo laugh, and when he succeeded, he’d look as if he’d achieved some great success.

Change is frightening and losing something dear to you–––something you’ve grown so used to–––is even more so. It was easier, back then, to shuffle along, ignoring his ever-growing desire to be something more. There lies assurance in staying the same, however painful that might be. Kissing Soonyoung would have meant confronting the problem, and Wonwoo could never do such a thing. Running away is all he’s ever done, and it's all he’s ever known how to do. It’s why he’s here in the first place.  
  
“I kissed you,” Soonyoung continues, unperturbed by the silence. “Pretty sure you hadn’t dragged me there to kiss me, but I wanted to do it. So, I did it.”  
  
“If you hadn’t, then we would’ve been stuck in that rut of cliched romantic tension forever.”  
  
The kiss, as far as first kisses go, had been nice. Nothing of the heart-stopping variety, but lovely in its own way. If anything, it felt like the apogee of their friendship, with all the comfort and familiarity translated through the chaste pressing of lips. Some changes don’t have to be frightening and, for that brief moment, he’d witnessed the truth in that statement.

They say nothing more until Wonwoo loses the sensation of Soonyoung’s hand in his. When even that withers to nothing, he opens his mouth to speak. As always, he’s too late, and the world around him wanes away. Going, going, then gone. Disappearing, as if it had never existed in the first place. Soonyoung. The feel of gravel underneath his backside. The persistent hum of the flickering street lights. All of it. Everything dissipates into the quiet nothing of an all too familiar hallway.

It takes him a while to open his eyes.

 

 

_The first time we met?_

_Well, which one?_

_Sorry, it’s confusing if I word it that way, right?_  
  
_You see, the first time I saw him wasn’t the first time I spoke to him._

_Though they were both at the same place._

 

 

“Escape while you can, Wonwoo-shi.”

Polite speech. It’s been a while since he and Jisoo have used it on each other. They’re comfortable enough to be impolite now. But this is not _now_ , it is _then_. A piece of the past lost in the crevices of his mind.

For the very first time, the door he chooses doesn't take him to Soonyoung. Instead, he finds himself facing a co-worker.

“Pardon?”

“Department head Chang drank himself into a stupor, and our seniors aren’t far behind,” Jisoo whispers, relief apparent in his expression. “They won’t notice our absence, trust me. Excuse yourself before they sober up and get the hell out of here.”

They’re at a restaurant, a few blocks from the trading company he interned at. 

“I have to use the washroom,” he says, and the words feel familiar on the tip of his tongue. They _are_ familiar, he’s said them before.

“Better hurry,” Jisoo warns.

He runs, his feet remembering the path, though it’s been ages since he last walked it. Without hesitation, he pushes open a stall, and Soonyoung looks up in surprise. Soonyoung’s tie is askew, and his hair is a mess. His head rests against the seat of a toilet, and he’s hugging his knees to his chest. The quintessential pose of a very tipsy man.

“Sorry, did you need to use the toilet?” Soonyoung mumbles, struggling not to stumble on the words. His head never lifts from the toilet seat.

“Are you drunk?” he stupidly asks, already knowing the answer. The flush of Soonyoung’s cheeks and the burning red of his neck make it so obvious.

“I’m fine."

“Are you sure?”

“Not really, no. I’m sorry.”

Wonwoo doesn’t know why Soonyoung is apologizing, so he awkwardly laughs. Rather than taking offence, Soonyoung laughs, too. 

“Let me help you to your table.”

“No,” Soonyoung argues, struggling to stand. He doesn’t get very far and falls back onto the floor.

“You need help.”

“The people at my table can’t see me like this. It’s a company outing!” It’s the pathetic whine to his voice that inspires Wonwoo’s sympathy. Seniors are ruthless, even without reason, he can’t imagine what hell they’d put this poor, tipsy stranger through.

“This is where I offer to take you home, Soonyoung,” Wonwoo reminds him, smiling as he leans down. They’re at eye level now.

Soonyoung stares at him, managing a slanted grin. “You’re not supposed to use someone’s name before they tell you it, _Wonwoo_.”

 

 

_The first time we talked, he was kind of drunk._

 

 

Wonwoo hails a taxi, and all but drags Soonyoung into it. The car is quiet, and Soonyoung is trying his hardest not to fall asleep. The city lights stream by the taxi window, making the oddest reflections on the glass. He reaches over and pulls Soonyoung’s head onto his lap. It’s not what he’d done that day, but it’s what he wants to do now. Soonyoung allows his eyelids to close. 

“We didn’t work out,” he says, his eyes trained on the lights.

In many ways, the night is deceitful. It wraps Seoul in a blanket of darkness, hiding all the noise and filth under its velvety cover. Night makes the city look almost magical, until morning breaks and reveals what had previously been hidden.

“No, we didn’t,” Soonyoung agrees.

“Why do you think that is?” he can’t help but ask.

“You already know why. Now, ask the question you’re really curious about.”

“Did we ever fall out of love?” He wets his lips with his tongue. “Did I ever stop loving you? Amongst the fighting and screaming and avoidance and hate, did I ever stop loving you?”

Soonyoung doesn’t answer, though Wonwoo's not sure if it’s because he’s fallen asleep or because the question was never for him.

“No,” Wonwoo decides, with a touch of surprise. “Soonyoung, I think I still love you.”

Because Wonwoo, however much he might try, could never figure out how to stop being in love.

 

 

_I took him home._

 

 

“Aren’t you too kind?”

Wonwoo considers this. “I just took you home is all. It’s manner, not kindness.”

“I’ve seen manner,” Soonyoung argues, and he stumbles on the mouthful of words. Wonwoo is still impressed he didn’t regurgitate the contents of his stomach in the taxi. “I feign manner at work every day, and what you did was definitely kindness.”  
  
“Oh?”  
  
“You’re kind.” Soonyoung leans his head against his doorframe, making no move to actually open the door.

“Thank you?”

“No, thank _you_. For taking me home when you didn’t have to, and you _really_ didn’t have to. You must not have wanted to, but you still did it. I’m Soonyoung.” He shrugs, and since he’s leaning so heavily on the door, it comes off comical. “Since you know where I live now, I figured telling you my name wouldn’t be the end of the world.”  
  
“A very smart deduction,” Wonwoo compliments, struggling to hold in his laughter. Soonyoung is taking his ramblings seriously, and he doesn’t want to hurt the guy’s feelings.

“Who’re you?”

He could always lie or refuse to answer, but there’s something so honest about the tipsy man in front of him. Saying anything but the truth would be criminal.

“Wonwoo.”  
  
“Well, thanks, Wonwoo-shi. You saved my life.” He says it like he means it. From the way he's talking, it's like Wonwoo had rescued him from a burning building or tore him from the path of an oncoming car. It’s as embarrassing as it is amusing.

“I’m not sure I’d go that far, but you’re welcome?”  
  
Soonyoung fumbles around for his keys, his hands going to his pockets with very little grace. Eventually, Soonyoung brandishes the key, dangling it in triumph.

“Soonyoung?” Wonwoo says, and Soonyoung finally separates himself from the doorway. There are creases on his forehead, where he pressed too hard on the wood. “This is the first time we talked.”

“I guess it is,” Soonyoung offers. He’s got the key in the lock now, and he's doing his best at turning it. An admirable effort if Wonwoo's ever seen once. “It’s when we introduced ourselves.”

There’s a lot he wants to say, but there’s no more time left.

“Despite everything,” he says, bearing his heart to the man who had held it so firmly in his hands. And with those hands, he’d crushed it. “I never regretted meeting you. Never.”  
  
“You mean that?” Soonyoung asks as he struggles with the door. Genuine surprise colours his voice.

Wonwoo reaches over and plucks the key from Soonyoung’s hand. The flesh of his thumb drags over the ragged edges of the key, and he focuses on that, instead of the words leaving his mouth.

“I was happy to have met you, Kwon Soonyoung. I was happy to have been introduced to you, to have laughed with you, to have talked with you and...and to have loved you. Even when we fought, and I know we fought a lot, I was happy to have known you. I was. You don’t have to believe me, but I really, really was. So, thank you.”  
  
“For what?” Soonyoung asks, and Wonwoo meets Soonyoung’s eyes. “What are you thanking me for?”  
  
“I don’t know,” he admits. “For meeting me, maybe?”  
  
“You’re thanking me for getting drunk and sitting next to a toilet?”

“I guess I am,” Wonwoo concedes with amusement. “Thank you.”  
  
Soonyoung beams as Wonwoo turns the key. The door unlocks with a click.

 

 

_The first time we met?_

 

 

There’s one door left.  The hallway once ridden with white doors is empty, save for one, lone door.

 

 

_We didn’t speak then, but I saw him from across the restaurant._

_It was the first time I ever saw him._

 

 

He’s sitting on a heated, wooden floor, shoulder to shoulder with a gaggle of nervous men. The setting is familiar to him, it’s one he’s had to live through several times before. Drinking with the higher-ups. An excuse for the company seniors to get the interns drunk, then laugh at them.

The seafood stew bubbles in its pot, and Jisoo laughs nervously beside him.

“Hong- sshi, you’re from America, right?”

“Yes,” Jisoo answers, smiling to hide his discomfort. “I grew up there.”

“Speak English for us,” a man asks. Someone from the finance department, a sour looking grump, with years of seniority to lord over them. “Sing an English song for us.”

Wonwoo can’t bear to see Jisoo embarrassed like this, so he mumbles something about the washroom.

“Can’t hold your alcohol, Wonwoo?” someone cackles, and he thinks it’s his supervisor, but he’s not sure.

He laughs with the rest of the room, forcing a smile on his way out. The jingling of bells jolts him from his misery, a soft twinkling that has him stopping in place. It’s the bells attached to the restaurant door–––a sign of incoming customers––– but it’s more than just that.

“Soonyoung,” he says, to no one in particular.

A crowd of men shuffle in from the brisk, September chill. Soonyoung is near the back of the group, talking to a co-worker. Wonwoo makes a grab for Soonyoung’s wrist, and Soonyoung looks at him in surprise. He’s younger than Wonwoo knows him to be, with fewer worry lines and lighter eye bags. His black hair is brushed back, away from his forehead.

“We’re not supposed to talk,” Soonyoung reminds him.

“I know.”

“We don’t talk,” Soonyoung repeats. “The first time you see me, we don’t speak.”

It’s true. Their first meeting was at a family restaurant in the heart of Seoul, a reasonable distance from their respective internship placements. The restaurant wasn’t special in any way; a popular place for drinking. Wonwoo and Soonyoung might have bumped into each other several times before and not realized it. But the first time he actually notices Soonyoung is now. The tinkling bells startle him and have him looking over at the newcomers. They met each other’s eyes, completely by accident. They think nothing of it.

Soonyoung puts a finger to his lips when Wonwoo tries to speak, but he drills forward, anyway.

“We’ve got to talk now. There’s no time left, this is the last memory.”  
  
“So, what do we do?” Soonyoung pulls at his tie, struggling to loosen it. He’d always hated formal wear, opting to abandon his ties and blazers whenever he could.  
  
“We say goodbye.”

“What?” Soonyoung frowns in confusion. “Wonwoo, after this, you---”  
  
“I know,” he interrupts. He knows what happens afterwards.

 

  
_But we didn’t speak at all, that day._

 

 

“How shall we do this?”

“I don’t know,” Wonwoo confesses, his words tapering off into a watery laugh. He shrugs. “I was never good at things like this.”  
  
“Saying goodbye?”  
  
“Saying goodbye, saying hello, saying anything, really.”

“It’s alright, there are plenty of other things you’re good at. Great at, even.”

“You were always kinder when you pitied me,” Wonwoo muses, and Soonyoung reaches up to touch his face. The tips of his fingers gently trace the line of Wonwoo’s jaw, before firmly cupping his cheeks.

“This isn’t pity,” Soonyoung corrects, and his voice holds a serious edge to it. “This is sadness, Wonwoo.”  
  
“Why’re you sad?”

There is no answer, but Wonwoo doesn’t need words to understand. He gets it, he really does. There’s a sadness that settles in his chest, making his body heavy and his words thick. It’s the kind of sadness that he tastes with every breath.

At this point, sadness is pointless; it’s not like he’ll remember anything, come morning. The sun will break, a new day will begin, and he’ll open his eyes and continue living. But that can’t be right, he refuses to believe it. He’d given up too much of himself and been given too much in return to have it all wiped away. It’s impossible for him to revert so seamlessly into his past self, the person he was before Soonyoung. Maybe memories can be forgotten, and maybe words can be erased, but feelings can never be taken away. When all is said and done, and Dr. Choi has erased every bit of Soonyoung left in Wonwoo’s dreams and thoughts and memories, he’ll still be there, with Wonwoo, in some capacity. Without a doubt, there’ll be an emptiness where Soonyoung should be. Maybe he won’t understand it, but he’ll miss Soonyoung, just as fiercely as he did before the erasing. How funny, he thinks, eyes drinking in the details of Soonyoung’s face and the bends and curves of his body, to miss someone you no longer remember.  
  
“Do you remember what happens today?” Soonyoung asks. He’s talking slowly, displaying none of Wonwoo’s urgency. Completely unaware of how pressed they are for time.

“Of course.”  
  
“Then tell me. What happens after the bells jingle?”  
  
“I thought you were attractive. I liked the way your eyes curved in laughter. You were smiling at something your co-worker said, tittering at some rambunctious joke, no doubt, and you looked happy. _What a cute smile_ , I thought to myself.”

“Did you want to speak to me that day?”

“No.” Soonyoung pouts, lips pressed together in unhappiness. “I know it’d be more romantic if I had, but no. I hate talking to new people, Soonyoung, and you were surrounded by co-workers. Besides, I was busy feeling sorry for Jisoo hyung.”

“This is making to be an anticlimactic first meeting.”  
  
“It is, isn’t it?” Wonwoo leans into Soonyoung’s touch. He brings his hands up and places them over Soonyoung’s, the added pressure pushing Soonyoung’s fingers more firmly against his cheeks. “How could I have known, back then, what I know now.”

 _That I'd come to care for you this much._ Such a helpless truth, but genuine in every way. You don’t erase meaningless people. You erase those close to the heart; they’re the only ones who can hurt you enough to consider it.

When Soonyoung’s hands drop away, Wonwoo pulls him closer. Wonwoo leans closer until their foreheads are touching and Soonyoung’s lips are inches from his own.  
  
“There are things I wish I could change, so many things I regret. Things I wish I’d said to you, things I wish I’d done differently. If I could, please know that I’d–––god, I don’t know––-do better? I’d fix it. I’d fix my mistakes, I---”  
  
“Say your goodbyes, Wonwoo,” Soonyoung interrupts, folding his hands behind Wonwoo’s neck. “No more apologies, from either of us.”

In the end, it was never the distance that ended them. Incheon is only an hour from Seoul, they could have made it work. But they'd been too stubborn to see the truth for what it was: they weren't trying anymore.

When was it, exactly? When did they stop trying? When did he stop talking to Soonyoung––– _really_  talking to him–––about the important things in life? The things he used to whisper into Soonyoung’s ear during early mornings and late nights when everyone else in Seoul was asleep. It had been easy back then, to lay things bare. When did he get too tired to care what Soonyoung knew, and what he didn’t know? And when did Soonyoung stop laughing at nothing and trying to understand the things that went on in Wonwoo’s head? He has a feeling–––a horrible, queasy sort of feeling–––that it happened all at once. One day, they just stopped. Without warning, they stopped trying to reach agreements and compromise, and  _talk_. Talk like they used to, when they were younger and braver, with a lot more to lose in life.

It’s funny in a sad sort of way: how pointless their arguments had been, and how he didn’t realize their senselessness until he lived through them again. But Soonyoung is right, it's too late for regret, and it's too late to fix what has already come to pass.   
  
“I love you,” he simply says. When Soonyoung moves to bridge the gap between them, he closes his eyes, though he can still _feel_ the lips ghosting over his own. With an intake of air, Soonyoung whispers his own farewell. The words leave a shiver on Wonwoo’s lips.  
  
_“Don’t forget me.”_

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“I’m so sorry,” a man apologizes.

He has messy, black hair–––pushed back, away from his forehead–––and thin eyes that curve when he smiles. He's standing in the way of a passerby. Streams of people crowd a platform in Seoul, and two men stand in the midst of them all. They bow politely to one other–––the passerby's round glasses slip down his nose at the movement–––before heading in opposite directions. They're boarding different trains, and they'll be late if they don't hurry.

This is what happens that day: at the same time, they pause in their walking and turn their heads. And one of them opens their mouth as if to speak.

**Author's Note:**

> @ ninisus: while reading through your prompts list, i got the impression that you like happy endings!!!! i tried to go for an open ending/hinted-happy-ending sort of feel!!!! i.....might have epically failed.....and for that, i am so sorry TT_________TT i'm also sorry for this disappointment.....you deserve so much better, ninisus, and i hope you'll forgive me ∠( ᐛ 」∠)＿ 
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you for reading, and I wish everyone a happy swn anniversary!


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